


Twenty Sherlolly Prompts - Never Can Say Goodbye

by MizJoely



Series: Twenty Sherlolly Prompts [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform, With a side of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2536793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>welovesherlolly said: Muahaha, i'mma leave a prompt ^^ congrats on the 1000 followers, you deserve it :D anyways Moriarty is back and Sherlock runs to Barts only to find out Molly isn't there anymore, she's been gone for maybe 5 months, but he hasn't seen her since she slapped him. He goes looking for her scared for her safety, and finally admits to his feelings, also smut ;P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Sherlolly Prompts - Never Can Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeLoveSherlolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeLoveSherlolly/gifts).



> mizjoely says: I hope you like this. An OC crept into the narrative and a bit more angst than I had originally planned (and sadly no smut), but I think otherwise it meets your specifications!

“What do you mean, she doesn’t work here anymore?”

Sherlock’s voice rose to a near shout as he confronted a concerned-looking Mike Stamford. John reached out to put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, to try and get him to calm down, but Sherlock shook him off and glared at the other man. “Well? Where is she, then?”

“She moved to Edinburgh about five months ago,” Stamford replied with a glanced at John that spoke volumes. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I thought she knew, thought she would have told you. I mean, I know your last visit with her here was a bit, um, acrimonious…” His voice trailed off and he shrugged apologetically. “I just didn’t realize you’d left things so poorly between yourselves.”

Sherlock glowered at the shorter man, then whirled abruptly and headed out of the path lab at top speed. John gave Mike a quick thanks and a wave goodbye, then hurried after his friend, catching him up as he was stabbing impatiently at the button for the lift. “Sherlock? Where are we going?” he asked as he came to a stop.

“You’re going back to Mary,” Sherlock said as he stared fixedly at the round, dimly lit button, as if his gaze alone would summon the lift that much faster. “I’m going to Edinburgh.”

oOo

Just over seven hours later he had arrived, not at the hospital but at the flat Molly was currently letting. An elderly neighbor – mid seventies, widow, originally from the county of Banff, owner of multiple cats and an overeager puppy she’d just been gifted with – let him into the building. It cost him carrying her shopping up to the fourth floor and listening to her chatter about her grandchildren and her pets (oops, four cats, not three but the last was one of those rather hideous hairless breeds so his mistake wasn’t actually a mistake) and the nice young English girl who lived downstairs from her. Molly had made a positive impression in just four short months of residence – but then, he expected nothing less of her. She was quiet and unassuming, yes, but she was also friendly, cheerful, helpful, sweet-tempered, loving, beautiful…

 _Oh dear, brother mine,_ Mycroft’s voice sounded mockingly in Sherlock’s mind. _It’s worse than I thought. Apparently Miss Hooper isn’t the only one with love on her mind these days._

No. She wasn’t. And Sherlock felt a chill go through him at the thought that she might not have love on her mind at all – at least, not for him.

He hoped he was wrong. He couldn’t lose her when he’d finally admitted to himself that he wanted her as more than a colleague or even a friend.

“It can’t be too late.”

He didn’t realize he’d spoken the words aloud until the elderly woman cocked her head at him and looked at him inquiringly. Before he could come up with some plausible untruth, she smiled and patted him on the chest. “Don’t worry, dearie, your young lady hasn’t taken up with anyone since she moved here. I daresay she’ll forgive you for whatever it is you’ve done as long as she knows you’re sincere in your repentance.”

He gaped down at the beaming face, wreathed in wrinkles that had been earned through age, hard work and a life, he perceived, full of smiles, then smiled back at her. Leaning forward, Sherlock pressed an impulsive kiss to the woman’s forehead. She swatted him playfully as she turned to unlock her door. “Save that for your Miss Hooper, Mr. Holmes,” she said as the door opened and she reached for her bags. “And thank you for your help!”

“You know who I am?” Sherlock was caught between wanting to continue speaking to Molly’s surprising neighbor, who reminded him a great deal of Mrs. Hudson in attitude if not in appearance – his landlady was much younger looking than her actual years, taller and slimmer than this septuagenarian with her untidy bun of iron-grey hair and faded blue eyes – and wanting to dash down the stairs to Molly’s flat and pound on her door.

“Oh yes, everyone knows who you are, Sherlock Holmes,” the neighbor – Mrs. Ogilvy according to the small nameplate over her buzzer – said matter-of-factly. “And Molly’s been expecting you to come round sooner or later, even if she hasn’t come right out and said so. Shoo!” she added, giving him a gentle shove as he stood staring at her. “Come round for tea if you two aren’t otherwise engaged later!” Then she shut the door firmly in his face, and Sherlock’s gape turned to a delighted grin.

He bounded down the stairs two at a time, skidding to a halt just in front of Molly’s door, only a few long strides from the end of the staircase. He knocked briskly on the door and waited impatiently for her to answer. 

She was taking too long. Even if she was in the loo it shouldn’t have taken her this long to respond to his knock. Heart pounding, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the lockpicks he’d brought with him for just such an emergency. As he started frantically working the tumblers, however, he heard the click of the lock and felt the handle turning and stepped back, slipping his tools back into his pocket.

The door opened a crack – he saw a chain holding it shut, flimsy, useless, he would have to make her put in a deadlock if she insisted on staying here – and he saw Molly’s suspicious eyes glaring at him before widening in surprise…and then narrowing in anger. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing trying to break into my flat??”

She didn’t bother asking how he’d found her, which was smart of her – she knew his methods, after all. But when he started to answer her she continued on angrily, “I almost shot you!” He looked down and saw the barrel of a small-caliber handgun aimed directly at his midsection.

He beamed at her approvingly. “Excellent, Molly! I was worried you weren’t taking the current threat seriously enough!” As an afterthought, he added, “And I was trying to break in because you were taking too long, why were you taking so long, can I come in or shall we continue to have this conversation on either side of your door?”

Her scowl deepened, but she obligingly pulled the gun back. He heard the safety being replaced, then waited as she shut the door in order to undo the chain. For a chilling moment he thought she might not let him in at all, but then he heard the chain sliding and the door reopened, allowing him entry.

He took a moment to glance over her new residence, approving of the many signs he saw that Molly was, indeed, taking the Moriarty threat seriously. Aside from the flimsy chain – which he belatedly recognized as less ineffectual than he’d originally thought, since it would lull any intruder into a sense of complacency – he saw that her bedroom door was of higher quality, sturdier and with a deadbolt on it. He caught a glimpse of Toby’s open carrying case and an overnight bag stowed by the end of the sofa for easy access, and knew that the fire escape was wired for an alarm if anyone tried to open her window, both inside and out. He’d seen the wiring when he’d first scouted out the building in which Molly currently – and if he had anything to say about it, temporarily – made her home. He’d approved, and was pleased that her precautions carried through in other ways.

“I approve,” he said aloud, smiling at her, although the smile faded as he noted that she was still scowling at him – and that she still held the gun in one hand. Pointed downward, safety on, but still…a visible reminder for him that she wasn’t happy with this visit. “I’m sorry to just show up unannounced, Molly, but surely you understand the seriousness…well, of course you do, I can see that,” he corrected himself hastily as her scowl deepened. “I don’t mean to imply that you aren’t…”

“Sherlock!” Molly cut him off before he could ramble on any more embarrassingly than he already had been. “What are you doing here?”

He blinked at her; she sounded honestly confused as well as angry. “Making sure you’re safe. Bringing you back to London with me if I can convince you to come away. I doubt very much anyone – Moriarty or whoever might be acting in his name if it isn’t really him, which I doubt since I did see him blow his brains out quite literally in front of my eyes – would overlook your importance to me now!”

She huffed and finally set the gun down on the sofa table, then turned back to him, arms folded tightly across her chest. “Really? I think five months without so much as a single word from you, without you even noticing that I’d left London in the first place! – would convince anyone how little you care for me. It certainly convinced me,” she added bitterly. “But knowing you as well as I do, I also decided I’d best not take any chances.” She glanced meaningfully at the gun, then back up at him.

He stood by the door, feeling awkward and uneasy as she continued to stand there, just looking at him. The scowl was gone, but the expression it had been replaced by – a tired, resigned ‘what-do-you-really-want-Sherlock’ look – was infinitely worse. “I thought you were still angry with me – which clearly you are,” he finally mumbled, looking down at his hands and wishing he could…what, he wasn’t sure. Make it better somehow, he supposed. But he wasn’t very good at that – although Mrs. Ogilvy’s advice came to mind, helping him center his chaotic thoughts. He stepped forward. “And I deserve your anger. I was foolish and arrogant and flippant when I should have been sincere, and I let myself use the case for an excuse to slip into bad habits. And for all of that, I apologize.”

Molly’s gaze seemed to soften just a bit as she studied him, but her next words proved he still had a hard row to hoe in order to earn her forgiveness. “You left the hospital after being shot, Sherlock, and nearly got yourself killed a second time! What on earth possessed you to do something so stupid? I nearly had a heart attack when I got to your room and you were gone…”

She gasped and fell silent, as if she’d given something away she hadn’t meant to, and Sherlock clamped down hard on the urge to smile smugly. She’d come to visit him after all, but only when he’d left the hospital in order to force that ugly confrontation with Mary. Yes, it had been dangerous for him – in ways Molly still couldn’t know, not until he had permission from John’s wife to tell her – but it had been necessary. “I can’t tell you why I left, Molly, but it was important. Not just for the case, but for…it was important,” he repeated, willing her to understand that he wasn’t deliberately keeping secrets from her. Not now. Not ever again, he privately swore to himself. He did allow a small curl of the lips as he admitted, “I’m glad you came to see me, though. I thought you were done with me after those well-deserved slaps.”

She huffed and crossed her arms. “I bloody well should be, Sherlock,” she grumbled. “I left St. Bart’s and took the job here because I told myself I was. Seeing those horrid made-up newspaper articles clinched it; you were obviously using that poor woman…”

He snorted. “Save your pity; Janine got far more out of the bargain than she lost, including her freedom from Magnussen.” 

Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that; Molly was staring at him in confusion, and he sighed, deciding that Janine wouldn’t mind if Molly knew the truth – and even if she did mind, she’d never find out because she and Molly would most likely never cross paths again. “Janine wasn’t just working as Magnussen’s PA,” he explained. “He had something on her as well, something that she was afraid would come out and cause a lot of problems for her.”

He started to go on, but stopped obediently when Molly held up a hand and shook her head. “No, it’s not your secret to tell, Sherlock,” she said, then seemed to make up her mind about something. He watched approvingly as she checked the safety on her weapon and opened up a small, intricately carved wooden box resting in the center of her coffee table. And if his eyes lingered appreciatively on her rear as she bent over and replaced the weapon in its elegant gun safe (formerly belonging to her late father, used as mere decoration until now), his brain tried to insist it was strictly because she was in his line of sight.

“You may as well come in,” she said without turning around. “Tea?”

“Yes, please,” he replied, stepping away from the door and making his way automatically to the chair he’d favored for thinking when it had been located in her London flat. He frowned; it was going to take a great deal of work to convince her she was safer back home with him – no no no, not ‘with him’ as in living at Baker Street, surely that would be too much to ask? Surely she’d turn him down, remind him that he’d said more than once that alone kept him safe – and so it would likely keep her safe as well?

He mulled such discomforting thoughts while Molly fussed over the kettle and gathering the mugs and pouring the milk into her kitschy little cat-shaped creamer that she insisted reminded her of Toby even though it was just a plain white bit of ceramic. 

He’d missed all this, he realized. Missed the moments the two of them would sometimes share when he used her flat as a bolt hole. Missed the quiet camaraderie of working with her in the path lab at St. Bart’s, or watching her perform an autopsy with her crisp precision and absolute confidence. Why had he allowed this to go on so long, this distance between them?

Because it was safer for her not to have him in her life. The epiphany struck like a bolt from the sky, and he was on his feet and rushing for the door before he realized he’d even started moving.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s worried voice stopped him in his tracks, one hand reaching for the door handle. Slowly he turned to face her, knowing she would see him as clearly as she always had, and would read his sudden panic if not the reason behind it.

He cared for her. No, more than ‘cared for’; the detested word was the only one that would fit, that sounded right to his ears and eased an ache in his heart he hadn’t noticed was there until he thought she’d left him forever.

Love. He loved her.

“I love you.” She gaped at him as he made the confession. It was impulsive and quite possibly the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life – up to and including shooting Magnussen in front of a half dozen witnesses – but it was too late to take it back. He stepped forward, pulling the steaming mugs out of her unresisting hands and setting them down on some convenient piece of furniture – a bookshelf or a table, possibly a chair. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered at the moment except telling Molly how he felt about her.

No, not just telling her; showing her. He took her head in his hands, cradling her face, tilting it up to meet his as he bent to press his lips against her. At first she simply stood there, seemingly stunned – and why shouldn’t she be, neither of them had expected this visit to contain a sincere declaration of love, he was still stunned a bit himself – but then, just as he began question himself, she moved. Her hands reached up and grasped the lapels of his coat, her mouth opened beneath his, her lips moved, her tongue…every nerve ending in his body, every synapse in his brain seemed to misfire as she brushed her tongue tentatively against his lips. He gasped a bit, sucking in a surprised, pleased, thrilled breath and met her tongue with his own, deepening the kiss into something that could never be mistaken as merely friendly.

He let her be the one to break the kiss, his hands dropping to her waist as she stepped back. Not far, just enough to let her look up at him, to meet his gaze without having to crane her neck to an uncomfortable angle. He waited silently for her to say something, bracing himself for anger, for some kind of backlash, for the sting of her hand on his cheek…

“You mean it.” The words were soft, wondering, not a question at all, but he nodded anyway to confirm her pronouncement. “You big…idiot.”

He blinked. Well, that was unexpected; not the name calling, he certainly deserved it and worse, but that she hadn’t actually called him something worse. Still, the more he considered it, the more he realized that no, this was actually the most appropriate insult to the situation in which they found themselves. “Yes, I have been, rather,” he agreed, one hand drifting up to toy with her hair. She’d cut it; how had he not noticed before? Because he’d been too busy assessing her mood to wonder at something as unimportant as her physical appearance. No, strike that, not unimportant, simply less important at the moment than making sure she was alive and well and…

“Sherlock Holmes, how long? How long have you felt this way?” Molly demanded, once again interrupting his racing thoughts. How easily she managed that, when so many others could be easily ignored – even John, his best friend; even Lestrade, who brought him lovely cases to fill his time when he was bored and itching for a distraction. 

“Quite a long time, actually,” he admitted, stroking his fingers through the shorter tresses she now sported. A shade redder, actually, now that he was actively categorizing such things. He liked it, he decided. It suited her. “At least since my return to London.” He nodded decisively. “Yes, since then. But you were engaged.”

“I was,” Molly said, nodding. She dipped her head and peeked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, reaching out to toy with the lapels of his coat once again. “But I’m not now. And neither are you. Fake-engaged, I mean.”

“It really was for the case, Magnussen had to be stopped and I – oh. You’re teasing me, aren’t you.” 

Molly nodded again, her grin widening. “A bit, yeah.” Her expression turned serious and he knew what she was about to say before she opened her mouth. “Just like Moriarty has to be stopped, or whoever is using his face and name. Just promise me one thing, Sherlock. Promise me it won’t end with you jumping off a building or flying off to certain death in eastern Europe.”

“Oh, Mycroft told you about that, did he?” Sherlock was vaguely uncomfortable at the idea of his brother and Molly being in contact when he had kept himself deliberately away from her, too afraid to face her anger and disappointment – and far too cowardly to deal with his evolving feelings for her. “Yes, well, you know I can’t make that promise, Molly, but I do promise to do my damndest to come back to you. Will that be – is that enough, do you think?”

The smile returned. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Then she pulled him down for a second kiss, softer and sweeter than the first. “Of course, it would be nice if you asked me if I loved you, too,” she murmured when the kiss ended. “A girl doesn’t like to have her boyfriend taking things for granted.”

Sherlock frowned. “I despise that term, Molly; you and I are hardly a boy and a girl, we’re full grown adults, and I…” He rolled his eyes, but kept his arms folded around her slender form, feeling it shake with suppressed laughter. “Fine,” he huffed. “I’m your boyfriend. And I will do my best not to take you for granted. Tell me how you feel about me.”

“Nope,” she replied, looking up at him with a smirk. “Deduce it, Mr. Consulting Detective.”

“You love me,” he responded promptly, taking no time to think about it or search her for the telling little clues that would give her feelings away. He already knew she did, else she’d never have allowed him this close. “Now will you give your notice and come back to London, where you belong?”

“Yes. But only if you help me pack, get out of my lease, explain things to my new employers…”

Sherlock grabbed his mobile and began typing furiously while Molly watched with raised eyebrows. When he finished, he grinned at her, tossed the phone onto the coffee table, and took her back into his arms. “Done and done. Well, it’ll be done soon, I’ve got Mycroft on it. The lease and the job, that is. And I’ve asked him to get you your job back at St. Bart’s as well, I’m certain Stamford is missing you, I doubt he wanted you to leave in the first place…”

He might have kept rattling on indefinitely if Molly hadn’t taken the initiative, grabbing his face and pulling him down for a very satisfying snog. It ended with both of them breathless, and Sherlock couldn’t think of a more pleasant state of being. Of course that could be due to oxygen deprivation, but he doubted it. Yes, he still had an enormously challenging case to unravel, and there was still the possibility that things could end…not well…but as long as Molly was with him, he could face anything.

“I love you,” he said, for the second time, and this time she smiled and said softly, “I know, Sherlock. And I love you too.”


End file.
